The Eligible Bachelor
by conchepcion
Summary: A red dress - a copious amount of alcohol intake – and being fashionably late - was her sole intention when she'd finally arrived at Bart's annual Christmas party.


**A/N:** I haven't been writing of late, but I am getting back on my horse - giving a wee present due to my absence (sorry!). Probably not suitable as it isn't Christmas, but hopefully you'll forgive me (and possible mistakes made in the text). It's just a silly piece of fluff really.

* * *

Get in and get out of St Bart's Christmas bash was her plan, without unintentionally insulting some snotty doctor who meant her field was inferior, or call her the princess of the un-dead (a nickname from uni).

The fact that she was younger than the lot, a woman and absolutely not interested in any of the awkward advances that some of her less than savoury colleagues would occasionally hint towards; it became completely understandable that she did not want to linger any party thrown at Bart's more than necessary. It was enough having to brave that sort of behaviour soberly, but with enough alcohol – attempted indiscretions would be proclaimed as, "Sorry, I was just a bit drunk. You're clearly overreacting."

Like she was an idiot.

The fact that she felt more tempted to sit on her sofa jamming crisps in her mouth made leaving her flat even more difficult than usual. Not that it wasn't a good plan – to get out and do something different, especially since her friend Mary was more or less pressuring her to attend, "I had to cope without you – having to do, Sherlock's every bloody bidding – so you owe me." One weekend in illness ended up with her friend Mary stepping in unwillingly. If there was one person who could fill her shoes, it was of course Mary, but it wasn't done without sacrifice. Molly was known as the wrangler – the one person to have tamed Sherlock Holmes – she wouldn't call doing his bidding, fetching him coffee - _proper _wrangling exactly. Though she would admit to having toned down on that business, not that he was as demanding as before, but he did owe her to go soft when she'd saved his neck.

However she did find the fact that he wouldn't complain on what he'd previously call _her attempts on conversations_ quite startling, but he'd still behave like an arse if one of her oblivious dates for an evening would pop up at her work unannounced.

She didn't want any of them to be more or less ridiculed, with her fighting against her want to laugh, while a crease grew between his brows, before the suitor would vanish like the lot of them at any revelation that Sherlock would proclaim.

Molly had at least hoped that would happen after a couple of dates, when she'd figured it out herself, "I am saving you the trouble," Sherlock would say smoothly behind the microscope, without batting an eye, as John would stand horrified in the back, but she'd given up caring.

It was somehow disturbingly helpful in a way, but she'd never get to actually go on a physical date if it continued. She snorted lightly to herself – not one night could pass without a single thought going towards the dark haired man with the mesmerising blue eyes – how bloody annoying.

She'd just entered the room, small platters of food being served, long tables littered with it, champagne glasses being distributed, which made her own intake of wine at home unnecessary, except for the extra courage to get there at all.

She saw a hand waving at her amass the crowd with people donning suits, gowns and whatnot – some with ridiculous reindeer hats propped on their heads, or ornaments. Molly almost felt half-inclined to accept one held towards her, but Mary whose hand still beckoned her over soon got her back to reality. She was already a dark-horse – she didn't need to add more to her list, and so she reached her friend who gripped her less than warm hands a bit hysterical, "You're late!" she almost snapped, her red hair curling perfectly on her pale shoulders. She of course wore a navy coloured dress, looking elegant, as usual, to Molly's slight annoyance, for she herself merrily looked like an overgrown child attempting dress-up (at least that's what she believed).

"Yeah, I got a bit caught up with stuff," Molly said with a loop-sided grin, while Mary just ignored her excuse with a derisive snort, until she soon pulled her along more to the front of what seemed to be a podium. Molly stared at it with mild curiosity – she was used to there being a band, or some dull speech attempting to strengthen the rapport between the employees. Not that she ever really cared, she saw very few faces in the morgue really, for which she was grateful. She liked being independent, but the occasional lab work with Mary was decidedly good nonetheless.

"You've been missing out," whispered Mary into her ear – a statement she barely heard over the general outcry from the other residents the minutes the head Doctor Maxwell appeared at the podium with some clearing of his throat.

"What's going on?" she mouthed, soon drowned by the crowd, as Mary who grinned gestured to Doctor Maxwell, a light soon shining on his red face.

Doctor Maxwell was a pleasant man, a grandfather figure to all, one of the few she liked – even if he were now red-faced with a glass of brandy in one hand and tapping on a microphone with the other, "Hello again! – It seems that our auction has not yet ended. The lucky ladies who went empty handed will be overjoyed at that announcement, I am sure."

There was a great deal of catcalling and cheering.

Molly widened her eyes, while Mary hastily said, "They've been auctioning off eligible bachelors – a Christmas date – all proceeds go to St Bart's of course."

"Who's been forced to do that?" said Molly dismayed, though secretly happy that such an idea hadn't been given to the female staff, since she'd most likely say no. It was enough being there really, but she pitied the poor souls forced to do so. Well, it had to be somewhat free will.

"Mike," said Mary with a laugh.

"He must have hated that," said Molly who couldn't help but smile. Stamford was never one for that sort of thing, the least likely of all she knew to want to be in that sort of situation.

"To begin with, yeah, but he went off at a terribly good price – so he was quite chuffed at the end."

"Now – now – calm down ladies," said Doctor Maxwell, a gavel in one hand now, which he pounded for good measure on the podium, as he winked at the crowd, "This man is not a doctor-," Quite a great deal of displeasure exclaimed by the crowd, but Molly was certain she heard some excited gasps, "-but he haunts our corridors often enough to be considered one."

Her heart leapt, eyes fixated on Doctor Maxwell, as her eyebrows rose in general disbelief – there was not a chance – it couldn't be, "No," she said, at which Mary just looked at her knowingly.

"Yes, indeed ladies – you can't sell off Doctor Watson, without Sherlock Holmes!" The clapping was beyond massive, whispers spreading across like a wave, and the amusement growing, as some of the ladies seemed to have gained war-faces. Molly stared in amazement, as Sherlock appeared besides Doctor Maxwell, underneath the floodlight looking particularly annoyed, but she was sure he'd spotted her – she felt tempted to hide behind Mary.

A furrow was in his brow, clear distain etched on his face, as his blue eyes swept over the people gawking at him. Molly went red on his behalf, a part of her ignoring the faint fluttering at the sight of him in an actual suit, but he seemed highly uncomfortable standing there, so it dissipated.

"You've got to be joking," she said gaping, still trying to keep it at a whisper, as she knew he had a keen sense of hearing.

"John was the last," said Mary in an undertone and with a vivacious grin that pronounced her immense pleasure over that fact, "Oh, yes, I got him."

_Got him_ was a terrible expression, really, but she was glad that they were already dating – if Mary hadn't at least spent some pounds on John, then it would obviously be a difficult evening at the end, with her stuck between the pair, as she was the one to be blamed that they got together.

"What?" said Mary in surprise over Molly's puzzled expression, which made her turn away from Sherlock.

"Who blackmailed him?" Molly asked attentively with an eyebrow raised.

Mary hesitated, "No one, but you could say it was something like that."

Molly frowned at that.

"Now that we've all calmed down, I think the bidding can start at 50 pounds, as this is not an ordinary man certainly," said Doctor Maxwell, who gestured to Sherlock who stood still as a statue besides him. It was obvious that some of the other men had walked around, but it was obvious that this was not Sherlock's intention whatsoever.

Sherlock's mouth quirked upwards nonetheless, but his eyes remained quite emotionless. She wondered what on earth he was thinking, why on earth he was going through with it, and what John had on him – something nasty apparently, but it didn't make her pleased to see him in this state, despite the general amusement.

Hands went up with a flutter – "60." Women were practically half-shrieking undignified – one of the most persistent of the lot, who was almost right at the front where Sherlock stood was one woman who Molly had never liked – Anne Warner, who'd always felt that beating Molly was a reward in itself – either mentioning her increase in pay, her lavish much larger flat, her splendid life, or her exotic dates, and her sodding elegant hand was up with the rest of them, "70."

80

Should she just stand there watching her friend forced on what would most likely be an excruciating date? Not that her own mind did not go to an own idiotic place of fancy dinner with candlelight herself.

90

There was no way she was going to do anything, but Mary's eyes kept flickering towards her expectantly. Where on earth was John, anyway?

100

She pursed her lips. Anne's hand was up still. The other women seemed to have given up at this, it apparent that Anne was going to win this round. She could almost feel the woman's smug eyes head towards her, for she knew that she fancied Sherlock – everyone ruddy knew she was weak in the knees for the man. It still didn't mean that she was willing to pay for any date for the man, but it was actually to charity – to her working place, which in itself would be beneficial. Her mind raced.

150

Now her own bloody hand was up, to her own surprise she'd let herself go along with the madness, and it seemed to even please Anne Warner much more. Sherlock's eyes practically bore down upon her, probably judging her silliness, and she almost felt tempted to let it lie there.

200

Mary looked near fits of laughter, while Molly only huffed annoyed that Anne was obviously not giving it up without a fight.

250

Oh, two could play at that game.

300

When would Anne actually give up?

350

Molly's hand was now balled into a fist in the air; she could feel Sherlock's eyes on her still, while Anne's head whipped into her direction, a self-satisfied smile on those red lips, as Anne cried out, "500 pounds!"

Molly could feel Doctor Maxwell waiting for her to make a decision, her heart pounding, and her annoyance abundant, when she herself shouted out the unexpected "1000 pounds!" Anne looked at her wide-eyed, not bringing her hand up anymore.

"SOLD! To I believe Molly Hooper – fantastic contribution – your amazing evening awaits you I am sure – at such a price!" Doctor Maxwell cried out hammering with his gavel, while Molly's heart slowed its rate.

Anne looked beyond peeved, a glare thrown at her, before she disappeared off – her blonde hair whipping innocent bystanders.

"Molly!" she could hear Mary saying besides her, while Molly just shook her head – it was the same amount she'd give to charities anyway. There wasn't exactly anyone to give presents to during the holidays, only friends, and that never really amounted to anything, but the occasional scathing comment, and a kiss on the cheek.

"I just saved Sherlock from a faith worse than death, or well – at least in his case," said Molly who was overwhelmed by the general clapping that went on, until the music took overhand, and chatter once again occupied the room.

"So you're not going to ask him for that date, then?" asked Mary carefully, looking quite displeased if anything, "He does owe you one after all."

Molly stared at her friend baffled, "I doubt Sherlock would ever want to go through any of that."

"Then you wouldn't have needed to save his arse."

"Except for the pleasure of beating Anne," said Molly with a wide grin.

Mary's questionable frustration eased away, as she said, "Oh, you're right at that – _oh_ – here your man awaits you. I'll bugger off."

Before Molly could sound a protest, Mary had disappeared, and she was now facing Sherlock who seemed to hoover ever so uncertainly before her. Uncertain was not a look she was comfortable seeing on him. Last time it was before he jumped off the top of the building they inhabited at the moment, but he didn't seem at all worried before this evening, "Molly," he only said with a quick smile.

"Before you say anything – it's fine," she said waving her hand rather awkwardly, before it fell to her side. Gesturing was obviously not on the evening's schedule. She could see him following her movements.

He looked merely confused.

"I mean – we don't actually need to go on any date. I was bound to give some money to charity anyway, so it wasn't a great loss on my part. So no worries, you know – you can just buy me a packet of crisps or a lunch or – something – so we don't – you know – it's just some stupid thing anyway – you're obviously not interested – I'm surprised – you, oh I'll shut up now-," she more or less babbled, growing red at the sight of him now.

She should have considered how stupid her donation looked to him, for he probably saw her crush, as evident as always. For he probably assumed she was being as idiotic as a schoolgirl, and would probably chastise her soon enough for it.

"Oh," he only said, not looking less confused.

That was not what she had expected.

She stared at him for a minute, feeling suddenly unsure herself, "I better find Mary." As she wandered off, she unfortunately did not catch his rather perplexed expression, or John who appeared at his side looking questioningly up at him.

* * *

Everyone was talking about the various bachelors having been sold off – apparently her contribution was the largest, but obviously none of the staff found it really surprising. A bit of her felt aggravated by that, but she brushed it aside.

She was just happy it had not gone any further really, as she knew if it had – she would not back down. Anne kept sending her looks of complete loathing, while she just ignored her all-together, despite her own growing frustration over how stupid she'd been – this would not make any future conversations between the pair any less than difficult.

Mary still seemed unsettled, obviously startled by the amount she'd intended to give, which wasn't exactly little, but when she'd asked if it was that Mary had just shaken her head while drinking more champagne.

Molly was a bit surprised over the jealously she'd awoken, and in more than just Anne. Everyone seemed to want a bit of Sherlock, as he was "already hers" it wasn't fair, in his or her opinion, which left her surprised. He was definitively not hers, obviously not, and when she'd finally gotten her hand on some more champagne to calm down her ever-growing nerves, she heard Anne speaking with people who flocked about her, "The only way Molly Hooper _would_ ever get a date with Sherlock Holmes is if she paid 1000 pounds for the man," the laughter was outrageous, "So it's obvious why she did it, for I know for a fact he's turned her down several times."

Molly turned pale, her hand soon setting down the champagne glass, before she stormed out of the room Mary's voice following her when she finally escaped to the silent hallway – her heels clicking on the floor the only sound, as she felt the tears coming. It was idiotic, another Christmas spent crying over a man, but at least it wasn't his fault. Of course this was just her overreacting, but she couldn't exactly disagree with what was obviously the truth spoken by Anne. It was just not something one liked to hear, especially when laughter came at the end of it.

She leaned against the wall, trying to find her bearings, her chest heaving for breath, as she put her palms against the wall.

"Molly," said a voice, and she shut her eyes for a minute.

She thought he'd left, but there he stood staring at her. She just shook her head, "I'm fine," she said with a forced smile.

"Yes, you seem absolutely overjoyed," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

She blinked, "Sherlock, please – go back inside – I'm fine, ok," she said teary-eyed, as she started to walk away. She would just get her coat, take a taxi back to her flat, and finish a wine bottle on her own.

Sherlock didn't budge; instead he took a steading breath, "She's wrong you know."

She found herself stopping up in surprise, one hand drying away a tear, as she turned around to face him properly, "What?"

Sherlock was walking towards her carefully, "At least I am not the source of your tears for once," he said with a small smile.

She snorted, "Yeah, that's a relief."

He stood right in front of her, while she sniffled loudly, steadying herself, "But – err – what were you saying exactly?" she said, hands now on her hips.

"I would think it obvious," he said, his mouth still curved into a small smile, and she saw with a glance that his face was sincere, "Or maybe not," he said when he caught her face of confusion. His hand softly stroked away the remains of a tear on her hot cheek, her skin tingling at the touch, before he slipped some of her hair behind her ear gently, "Molly, I pride myself of being quite forward in what I want."

She swallowed blinking furiously, "What?"

"I asked you a week ago for a cup of coffee," he said his eyes a bit more steely, obviously this was something important, and she'd missed it entirely.

She frowned, "OK?" It was ridiculous; she'd given him the cup of coffee after all. He wasn't about to complain on the way she'd made it – it was always black and two sugars. It was very difficult to go wrong with that.

"You gave me a cup of coffee," he said with a raised brow.

"Well, you asked for a cuppa," she said annoyed, crossing her arms over her chest.

"No, Molly," he said, as her eyebrows rose, "I asked if you wanted to have a coffee with me."

"I did make my own to-," and suddenly she stopped talking, staring at him with wide eyes, "Really?"

He smirked, "Yes."

"Oh," she said rather slowly, as the highly amused man stood before her, "But why-,"

He interrupted, obviously knowing that she was thinking of his being auctioned off, "John's idea – it seemed to have worked. Minus the point where you said we weren't obligated to have a date."

"What if I hadn't-" she started flustered.

"John was prepared to sort it out himself if it came to that, which it almost seemed it would."

"Oh, well people would certainly be talking then," she said smiling like an idiot.

"He was rather glad that he didn't need to."

"Well, I couldn't exactly let you go off with Anne. She's awful."

"I couldn't agree more – _now_ – do you want to get out of here?"

Molly flushed, finding her shoes particularly interesting, until she meet his unwavering gaze, "So - we're actually going on a date?"

"Well - you did pay 1000 pounds for me. I think that equals more than _one_ dinner, if I am not mistaken," at which he gave her a soft kiss on the cheek, before taking her arm in his, "Merry Christmas, Molly."


End file.
